


The Cemetery

by liberalistempor



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-28
Updated: 2011-03-28
Packaged: 2017-10-17 08:40:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/174974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liberalistempor/pseuds/liberalistempor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After that, he wonders who this Eames fellow is, and why there seemed to be so many of them rotting in his cemetery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cemetery

**Author's Note:**

> Uhm...first fic. Here, and for this fandom, anyway. The dates are actually for a timeline for a longer WIP I have going, and as a general rule of thumb I usually don't follow I don't publish my stuff until they're finished, but...  
> Yeah, anyway, look for that later if you like this.  
> Enjoy~

Eames had always thought that underneath the Armani suits and Versace cologne, Arthur was a touch morbid. Not a touch, actually, he corrects himself. Extremely. And a good heaping of macabre, too. He shakes the seawater out of his eyes and watches the waves lap against the subconscious of Arthur.

It wasn't like the cemetery was creepy, though the overgrowth and darkening sky wasn't helping the “friendly cemetery” feeling, but it was the fact that on every tombstone Eames happened across, his name was engraved in large letters, with varying dates and by-lines: Eames, 30 May, 1997. “A Friendly Crash.” Eames, 19 March, 2002. “Well Met.” Eames, 20 March, 2002. “Home Sweet Home.”

Limbo was a creepy place in general, Eames finally decided. The ruins of this place were starting to close in on him, and he wondered why Arthur couldn't have built a city, or an office, or anything vaguely “Arthur” that he had come to know. This was a mistake.

Their job was supposed to be simple. As simple as inception was supposed to be, but that was hardly the point. Getting shot in the head by Arthur's projection of one of Eame's forgeries was not in the cards this time. And yet, here he was, in the middle of Arthur's (morbid) subconscious, exploring all of the deaths he can't seem to remember having.

His name was everywhere, and he wondered if there were replicas of him rotting beneath his feet.

Later, he wonders how long he's been there. He shrugs and starts to work on beautifying the cemetery.

After that, he wonders who this Eames fellow is, and why there seemed to be so many of them rotting in his cemetery.

He reads every inscription on every stone he's every cleaned, every tomb that needed shining, every marker that was weeded over. And even after every inscription, they never blurred together, they were always unique. This Eames, he has died many times, and every time there was something important to the marker, something important that was important enough to put on Eames' burial stone.

“Saw Him in the Rain.”

“Gave Me the Perfect Coffee.”

“Talked all Night.”

All of these inscriptions had to mean something, he knew, but he was just the caretaker and he didn't have to know anything about these-memories. These shadows of life.

Another several thousands tombstones later, and he's only just begun. His work is meticulous, and the best. The years pass like seconds, but he never minds.

“Eames!” The voice cuts through the silence like a knife, like a bullet. An unbroken silence for...the caretaker didn't even know how many years. “Eames!”

“You'll have to be more specific than that,” the caretaker calls back in amusement. He didn't expect the pounding footsteps, the way a hand tries to tug him up, a young man patting his cheeks, his arms, his shoulders. “What are you-?”

“Eames!” the man says. “Eames.”

“Do I know you?” the caretaker asks, squinting at the young man in front of him. The suit looked like it had been dunked in the ocean, sand and salt and brine all over it, a piece of seaweed hanging from his shoulder. The man's hair was loose, flopping over the place as it took in the caretaker's form, old and as forgotten as his cemetery.

“Eames, Eames,” he chants, like a mantra; a prayer to some higher power. “It's you.”

“There are ten thousand Eames' here,” the caretaker says. “And not one of them is me.”

“Eames, you have to wake up,” the man says. “Return to a half-forgotten reality. Escape the dream.”

“A dream...” the caretaker says distantly. “A dream where I could change skins, and recreate myself.” The man nods furtively. “I remember...”

“It's time to wake up now. So we can be together again,” the man says. “Where we can be Arthur and Eames, where we can be young men, together again.”

“No,” the caretaker says. “No, I have to finish my work.”

“No,” the man disagrees. “It looks like you're finished.” The caretaker looks to see the last tombstone, cleaned to perfection.

Eames, 21 December, 2010. “Fell in love. Never looked back.”

“To dance together,” the caretaker whispers, the words coming back to him like something he should never had forgotten, a trickle of cold water down his throat, a flash of lightning that was the catalyst between life and creation. “So we can dance together again.”

“Yes,” the man breathes. “So we can dance together again. You and me, Eames, Arthur and Eames, just like old times, together again.” The man's hold is warm, and it burns him like a fire, burning him away, spinning him like glass, melting him and reshaping him into...

“No,” the caretaker says, his skin cracking and breaking, brittle, like a chrysalis, shaking off his body like a badly-formed mold, turning back the years, recreating what was lost. “No, no, no...you're not Arthur.”

The man looks almost heartbroken, a sad smile starting to play on his lips, turning away.

“No, no, no, no...not Arthur. Darling,” Eames says. “You are...you are my darling.” Arthur looks up. “Darling, darling, darling...I had forgotten so many things.”

“We'll remember together,” Arthur promises softly, reverently, like a promise. He hands Eames the gun.

Eames holds it for a moment, weighing it, remembering what it was, like getting reacquainted with an old friend. He holds it up.

[PAGE BREAK!]

The light from a fire, burning him away.

[PAGE BREAK!]

Water, drowning him, grounding him, filling him up.

[PAGE BREAK!]

Falling, falling, falling.

[PAGE BREAK!]

A dimly lit hotel room. Like waking up after a thousand years, Eames struggles to sit up, struggles to remember what to do with this young body.

“I'm never letting you try inception again,” Arthur says in his ear. “Never again. Not even with me.”

“The only times I've tried inception is with you, darling,” Eames croaks. He wriggles his fingers, then his toes, then moves to touch his face, feeling stubble, but taut skin, unmarred by the passing of decades, short hair. He remembers his name, his favorite color, everything he loves and hates and takes in stride with a smile or laugh. He remembers how he got there, why he was trying to sit up.

“I'm never trying it again, then,” Arthur says. His warm arms circle his chest, his arms, his shoulders. “Christ, I thought I lost you. We lost the second level when I shot myself in the forehead after I found you.”

“Four thousand tons to concrete falling on your head,” Jade-their architect-says elegantly, getting up with a grace only an elf could obtain. “It was lovely.”

“It was a good kick,” their extractor-inceptor?-Benjamin says wryly. “Beautifully orchestrated, as usual, Arthur.”

“I only perform the best,” Arthur says mildly. He turns to Eames, releasing him from the hug, though holding on to his biceps, like he was afraid if he stopped touching Eames, he would disappear. “Are you alright?”

“I'll be okay,” Eames says, forcing spit into his mouth. “My mind is scrambled egg-free.” Arthur smiles, a dimples-and-mouth grin, splitting his face in half and reminding Eames of the young boy he had seen in action before his very eyes.

“Perfect,” Arthur says, and he buries his head in Eames' shoulder blade. Eames can't help but agree.


End file.
